Religion is the River of the World

It’s a typical Sunday in Harare. A cool wind breaks the heat, the streets are quiet, and everything is closed. The city center is dead. Traffic

For someone like me, who does not find his purpose through religious devotion, Sunday is a day of rest. It’s a day to sleep in, to have a barbeque, to read, to write, and to reflect on life.

Truly, this is good.

For the majority of Zimbabweans, however, Sunday is a day of praise and worship, a day that lasts all day whether you like it or not. Whereas God rested on the seventh day, his followers work.

If you visit Zimbabwe, you may be curious to see women dressed in solid blocks of color – white, green, or blue – wandering the streets like nuns who've broken free from the convent. Men wear badges and carry Bibles. You’ll regularly find them underlining passages in their down time as security guards, taxi drivers, and civil servants.

These are the worshipers, the men and women of the Apostolic Faith Mission Church and the Salvation Army.

Religion in Africa is big business, as anyone who has lived here can tell you. At times, the faithful take it a bit too far. Pentecostal churches in Nigeria support organized witch hunts. Traditional healers in Tanzania slaughter albinos to concoct potions that will bring riches, for a price. Muslim marabouts in Senegal essentially control the country’s political system; it’s near impossible to get ahead without their blessing. South Africa’s Dutch Reformed Church collaborated extensively with the Afrikaaner nationalists to craft some of the most racist policies of that country’s apartheid regime.

Zimbabwe especially is a country marked by its faith. Here, pornography is illegal. President Mugabe regularly attacks gays and lesbians in his political speeches, an effective diatribe that garners him more than a modicum of support. Here, sex scandals have been used to discredit opposition party candidates. MDC-T leader Morgan Tsvangarai has done more than his fair share to stir up tabloid rumors, though until his recent romantic trysts and troubles, the government-run media regularly questioned his sexuality in an attempt to sully his reputation amongst the average Zimbabwean.

Like the United States, the politics of morality are an effective tool to capture a large bloc of eligible voters. Even with accusations of electoral fraud, many here recognize that Mugabe courted the religious vote in a way that significantly boosted his support throughout the country. He attended weddings and funerals in the rural areas. He campaigned heavily to gain the support of the Apostolic church, one of the largest congregations in Zimbabwe, with over 2.3 million faithful, making up nearly 20% of the population. While tabloids scrounged for stories about Tsvangarai’s sex life, Mugabe worshiped and prayed with some of the most ardent, and influential, members of the religious community.

This religious fervor can’t be underestimated. Driving through Harare and into the rural areas on a Sunday afternoon, one can scan the horizon and pick out a half dozen separate congregations kneeling in fields and on rocky outcrops. Clad all in white, they look like spirits floating through the dry, golden savanna. These aren’t huge groups. They seem to number about thirty to fifty, growing until they reach a critical mass and break apart, a new group taking up another piece of land about fifty meters away.

The sermons last for hours, sometimes days. “They sleep outside some days. They build fires, they cook meals, and they pray for days and days.” Barbara is a Zimbabwean who left the country seven years ago. She comes back a few times every year. “The head of the church is known as a prophet. He’s believed to see the future. He can communicate with God. You go and kneel in front of him like you’re talking to the Holy Spirit. The say, ‘okay, you have to do this, you have to do that.’ Then they pray over stones. You take the first water of the day, before anyone opens the tap, and you put the stone in the water. You have to drink the water three times a day, or bathe in it. It’s supposed to be healing.”

There are Catholics and Anglicans in Zimbabwe, but like much of Africa, the older denominations are slowly dying away, being replaced by syncretic models that combine traditional beliefs and spiritualism with Christian evangelical ideology. Nigeria may be one of the biggest markets for this type of religious belief. Indeed, it’s practically an export. I've been continually surprised at the amount of major preachers from that country in this part of the continent. Any time you find a church that mentions fire, power, or suffering, you can bet it’s run by a Nigerian.

Religion is always a bit of a balm to ease the pain of everyday life. It’s no different here. Zimbabwe is a difficult place to live. Unemployment is high. Money is tight. People scrape by, if only barely. “In a way, from my point of view, it gives people hope,” says Barbara. It might not feed the family, but for many, hope gets them through. It feeds the soul.

Losing My Religion

“We proclaim God’s favour, blessings and protection on all facilities here and upon anyone who comes here to use them for good.” – Placard outside Jos Business School

A few weeks ago, I had to register my phone. This is a common practice introduced last year by the government as a means to combat the infamous 419 fraud scams and the rash of kidnappings in the Niger Delta. New SIM cards must be registered with fingerprints and a litany of the usual information: occupation, address, mother’s maiden name, etc.

However, there are a few questions that threw me off a little bit: “Mother’s maiden name? Yada yada...Okay...Hobby?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Hobby?”

“Like what do I do for fun?” This is perhaps the strangest question I’ve ever been asked during a routine registration procedure. I mean, what does the government actually expect from this question? “I like to kidnap Chinese oil workers...Damn! WRONG ANSWER!” “Oh, I’m actually the wife of former president Sani Abacha, and I need some help getting some money out of the country. If you could just give me your bank details...oh man, TRICKED AGAIN!” In the end, I declined my usual answers (puppy bowling, internationally renowned gentleman gambler, ruling several small fiefdoms in Central Asia) to give a rather blasé response: “reading.” I think I was a little flustered.

However, if hobby took me by surprise, the next question left me without any answer at all: “Religion?” In the United States, this is a distinctly no-go area. Religion is considered private, personal, but in Nigeria, most job applicants list their religious affiliation on the first page of their CV/resume.

Religion dominates life in Nigeria. It seems like every building, hair salon, bush taxi and motorbike has some motto or religious slogan begging God or Allah’s protection, blessings, a fabulous haircut or finely pressed pants. Sundays are devoted to worship, and every shop, restaurant, and bar seems to close for the Sabbath. This mirrors the specific times that the Muslim traders close shop to pray. Billboard advertisements from the recent elections tout specific candidates with slogans such as “With God, Change is Possible.”


Many politicians in the States cloak themselves in religious conservatism, but I am glad we haven’t progressed far enough down this path to directly invoke God in our political campaigns. For one, it seems facile, without substance (though admittedly, few campaign slogans actually contain much substance), as if inserting God can replace any real dialogue on the economy, education, health care or foreign policy. More importantly, linking religion to a political candidate carries with it the danger that any opposition to the politician may be construed as an opposition to religion. In Nigeria, the confluence of religion, politics, and ethnicity has done wonders in tearing apart communities and inciting bloodshed.

So, back to that crowded street corner and the booth where I registered my phone: “Religion?”

I paused, “None.”

He looked at me, confused, as if one of us hadn’t heard the other correctly. “None?” he asked.

“None,” I repeated. I think it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever denied a religion. I come from a very conservative community in the States. I could rattle off fifteen different Christian denominations that are present in my small town alone. However, I couldn’t have told you anything about Sufi Islam before living in Niger. (Sufi Islam? Ya, he used to be Cat Stevens, right? Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon, when you coming home Dad...That’s Harry Chapin, idiot. Sufi Islam sang Peace Train. Oh...my bad.)

Fact: Most Nigeriens have never heard of this sexy man.

Because of my past, I always defaulted into Christianity, but for personal reasons, I don’t think I can do that in Nigeria. Here, faith is a very public marker for an identity that is, to me, intensely private. In addition, my work here is to help bring together Christians and Muslims for a sustainable peace in Plateau State. Professionally, I don’t think I should claim one religion or another in my daily interactions.

I don’t write this as an attack upon any type of religion (or on Cat Stevens/Yusuf). Every person is spiritual in some way, and I am no different. One of my favorite writers, David Foster Wallace, spoke at Kenyon College’s commencement ceremony in 2005 and said, “here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.” I’m compelled by Kierkegaard and some of the other existentialists to constantly reexamine what it is that I worship. And even if that means I have to explain myself constantly to those who ask, I’m assured that in that process of explaining myself, I’ll find the right answers.